Chapter 369: Leo Karumi [3]

The waiting room smelled faintly of coffee, dust, and cold air from a vent that hummed too loudly. Fluorescent lights washed everything in a pale, almost hospital white. Folding chairs lined the wall; children in bright T-shirts and too-clean sneakers fidgeted on them while their mothers whispered reminders, smoothed hair, wiped invisible crumbs from faces.

Leo sat near the end of the row, feet not quite touching the floor. His green eyes moved quietly from one corner of the room to the other, not in the restless way of the other kids, but with curiosity.

He wasn’t bouncing his leg. He wasn’t humming. He wasn’t rehearsing his lines under his breath.

He was listening.

A girl near the door recited with loud, flat confidence, "I hate you, you’re not my real dad," to no one in particular, her mother nodding along like a coach. A boy in a superhero hoodie kept asking when they would be done. Somewhere behind Leo, a woman laughed too loudly at something on her phone.

"Leo," Jeanne murmured softly, leaning closer.

"Do you remember your first line?"

He didn’t look at her. His gaze was on the closed door at the end of the hallway—the one the children disappeared through, one by one, and came out from a few minutes later, suddenly smaller.

"Yes," he said.

Jeanne studied his profile.

"You don’t have to be nervous. Compared to everyone here, you’re simply better. You’ve already been in various plays; though this one might be bigger and new for you, you still won’t disappoint me, right? You’ll show Mom an amazing performance, right?"

"I will," he replied.

His thumb pressed against the stapled pages in his lap, feeling every ridge of the paper. He had read the scene twelve times.

He traced the title with one finger.

GLASS HOUSES

Scene 5 – "The Suitcase"

The door opened, and the girl who had just gone in shuffled back out, cheeks pink, mascara slightly smudged despite her age. Her mother leaned in with a soft, "You did amazing, baby," that sounded a little too defensive.

"Leo Karumi?" a voice called.

Leo’s head lifted before Jeanne could even squeeze his shoulder. He stood, the pages held neatly in his hand, and walked toward the casting assistant who’d called his name.

"In here," the woman said, her smile efficient, not unkind.

As the door closed behind him, the world narrowed.

The audition room was colder than the hallway. The florescent light felt harsher, the air dryer. A tape mark—one narrow, blue piece of gaffer tape—was on the floor in the center of the room.

Behind a plain folding table sat four adults: a middle-aged man with tired eyes and an expensive scarf—the director; a woman with a laptop and glasses perched on the tip of her nose—casting; a younger man with a clipboard and pen—the assistant; and an older woman with grey hair pulled into a bun—the playwright.

Leo took them all in without staring. He noticed the water bottle with the cap half-on, the script bristling with sticky notes, the email notifications lighting up the laptop screen, quickly dismissed. Their faces were already wearing that expression adults kept for children: patient, politely skeptical.

"Hi, Leo," the casting director said.

"How are you?"

"I’m fine," he replied.

"First audition?" the man with the scarf asked.

"First play audition," Leo said. "I’ve done some school performances."

The man chuckled.

"All right. When you’re ready, stand on the tape. We’ll read opposite you. Just take your time."

Leo stepped onto the tape. The floor felt different there, as if the air grew slightly denser. He could see them clearly enough, but not too close. Good. He inhaled once, quietly, his chest barely moving.

The assistant lifted his copy of the script.

"We’re doing Scene Five, ’The Suitcase,’" the casting director reminded him.

"You’re playing Noah."

"I know," Leo said, eyes on the page in his own hands.

The assistant smiled faintly at that, then cleared his throat and took on the voice of Elise, the mother character. It was competent, neutral—the kind of reading meant not to get in the way.

Leo could feel all of them waiting for that first line, the first syllable that would sort him into "typical child actor" or "maybe worth a callback" and nothing more.

He lowered his gaze, not to hide but to settle himself. He imagined the living room the play described: the couch, the half-packed suitcase, the open door to the hallway. He imagined the sound of a car idling outside, the ticking of a cheap wall clock, the muffled voices of neighbors through thin walls.

He pictured, without wanting to, his own front hall, his own mother’s suitcase once, a different year.

His throat tightened. He let it.

The assistant started.

ELISE

"Noah, put your shoes on. We’re late."

Leo didn’t answer immediately.

There was no line yet—but the silence was his, and he used it. He kept his eyes on the page, but his body shifted, a small, unfocused movement, like a child frozen halfway between obeying and pretending he didn’t hear.

The assistant read on, now "entering" the room:

ELISE

"Noah. Did you hear me? We have to go."

Leo lifted his head slowly, as if from somewhere far away. When he did finally speak, his voice was small but unusually clear, the consonants crisp in a way that made the words sound almost too adult, even as the tone stayed unmistakably seven.

NOAH

"Where?"

The word came out almost flat, but it wasn’t empty. It hovered there, heavy for a single syllable, like he already knew the answer and wanted her to lie.

The director’s hand, halfway to his water bottle, stilled.

The assistant read:

ELISE

"Grandma’s. Remember? You like Grandma’s. She has the big garden and the old dog that snores."

Leo stared at the assistant’s chest, as if that were where Elise’s voice came from, not his face.

NOAH

"...That’s not... why."

It was the microscopic pause before "why," the fraction of a second of swallowed breath that made it sound less like a retort and more like an accusation he was afraid to make.

The playwright’s eyes lifted from her copy.

ELISE

(sighs)

"Noah—"

NOAH

(overlapping)

"You folded your blue dress. The one you don’t like."

That line always sat strangely on the page. Most kids had noticed during the earlier wait, stumbled over it or said it with a bright, precocious knowing, like a clever TV child.

Leo said it like it hurt. Like he’d watched her fold the dress in slow motion and only understood halfway through what it meant.

He blinked once, long and slow, and his lashes stayed damp when they opened again.

The assistant swallowed.

ELISE

"It’s just for a few days."

NOAH

(shakes head)

"You said "a few days" when Grandma went to the hospital. She didn’t come back either."

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t wobble it theatrically. The "either" came out quieter, almost swallowed, as if he were ashamed of the thought even as he said it.

The room, already fairly still, went taut.

The casting director’s fingers stopped typing on her laptop.

Leo’s small hands clenched the pages a little, but not enough to crumple them. He wasn’t thinking about "acting," not consciously. He was thinking about questions no one had answered in the script, and many no one had answered in his own life.

Why pack now. Why the dress. Why the suitcase by the door instead of the closet. Why adults said "it’s just for a while" with that stretched, shiny smile that never reached their eyes.

ELISE

(softly)

"This is different."

NOAH

(almost immediate)

"You always say it’s different."

He let the words slip out fast, then stopped breathing.

The playwright leaned forward half an inch. The director’s pen, which had been casually doodling some meaningless line on his pad, stilled.

The assistant glanced up, thinking he’d missed a cue, but Leo was exactly where he wanted to be.

Then he lifted his head.

NOAH

(very quietly)

"Is it me?"

The words barely rose above a whisper, but they landed with a weight that made the playwright’s eyes shine suddenly, sharp and wet.

There was no melodrama in his face. Just a child’s terrible earnestness, scared to death of the answer and still asking because not knowing might be worse.

The assistant exhaled audibly, then remembered he was meant to reply.

ELISE

"No. No, baby, of course not. It’s... it’s not you. It’s—It’s grown-up things. Things you don’t need to worry about."

Leo’s jaw set.

NOAH

"I worry anyway."

His throat moved. His eyes glistened but didn’t overflow. They looked larger than they were, the green startling against the sterile light.

NOAH

"I hear you fight when you think I’m asleep. You say there’s not enough... not enough time, not enough money, not enough... me being normal."

That phrase on the page had always felt a bit on the nose. In lesser hands, it sounded written. Coming from Leo, small shoulders hunched but trying to stand straight, it sounded like a line he’d overheard, word for word.

The director’s eyes flicked briefly to the playwright. She didn’t look back. She was watching the boy.

ELISE

"Noah—"

NOAH

"I can be less. I promise."

He said it fast this time, the words tripping over each other as if they’d been waiting too long to get out.

NOAH

"I can talk less at dinner. And make less noise. And get less sick. I can take up less space. I can... I can stop asking questions. I can be like a... like a backpack. You can just put me where you want and I won’t say anything."

His breath hitched on "backpack." A ridiculous image, childish and concrete, but the desperation in his eyes made it almost unbearable.

He didn’t cry.

He did something worse: he tried not to. His mouth trembled once, then flattened; the wet in his eyes deepened but stayed where it was, trembling on the edge.

The room felt suddenly airless.

The assistant, who by now had forgotten his own job, stared at Leo with something like guilt.

He fumbled the next line.

ELISE

"You’re not a backpack."

NOAH

"You... you’re leaving me at Grandma’s."

He took the smallest step back, as if the words themselves were an impact.

NOAH

"Backpacks... go in closets too."

It wasn’t in the script like that. On the page, it was written as one clean line:

Backpacks go in closets too.

No stage direction. No break.

Leo split it himself, giving the first half the rhythm of a conclusion and the second the quiet, horrified realization of what that conclusion meant.

The director’s pen dropped onto the pad.

No one moved.

The scene had three more lines. The assistant, hand trembling slightly now, read them. Leo answered each with that same impossible balance of control and vulnerability, like someone walking a tightrope strung over a pit he already knew too well.

When the last line came—

NOAH

"If I promise to be smaller... will there be... enough?"

The room felt like it was holding its breath with him.

Then:

...silence.

Not the perfunctory two-second pause adults gave before saying, "Thank you, that’s great, we’ll be in touch." A real silence, awkward and raw, in which four theater professionals who had seen hundreds of kids read those same pages suddenly didn’t quite know what to do with their faces.

Leo stayed on the tape, script down at his side now. He didn’t bow, didn’t grin, didn’t shift nervously. He simply stood there, like the last echo of Noah hadn’t settled yet.

The director cleared his throat first.

"Thank you, Leo," he said. The words were familiar, automatic, but his tone wasn’t. It had sand in it, rough and astonished.

"That was... That was very good."

The casting director had stopped typing entirely. Her laptop screen dimmed. She pushed her glasses up with one finger, covering a suspicious shine in her eyes.

"Can you—" The playwright’s voice cut in, then softened.

"Sorry. Could you read it once more, but... don’t change anything. Just... do exactly what you did."

Leo blinked.

"Okay," he said.

He lifted the script again, even though he no longer needed it.

They read the scene again. This time, the assistant’s voice shook at three separate points. The playwright didn’t look at her pages once; she watched Leo instead, her hand pressed lightly against her sternum, as if something there hurt.

It was the same. The silences, the tiny hesitations, the break in the line, the almost-tears that never fully fell. He didn’t "improve" it. He didn’t try new choices. He repeated what he had found the first time with an eerie kind of precision, like a pianist hitting the same notes in the same places, no matter who was listening.

When he finished, the silence was shorter, but heavier.

"All right," the casting director said finally, the professional brightness returning like a coat shrugged back on.

"Thank you, Leo. That’s all for now. Do you have a—ah, never mind, your mom can email us. Thank you so much for coming in."

Leo nodded.

"You’re welcome."

As he turned toward the door, the director said, almost absently,

"How old are you again?"

Leo paused, while his hand was on the doorknob.

"eighth," he said.

The assistant made a barely audible noise—somewhere between a laugh and a curse.

And Leo stepped out into the hallway.

When Leo made his way back to the waiting room, he was met with a sea of nervous, frightened stares from the other kids. Some of them seemed more confident, but Leo ignored them.

There was only one person he wanted to see looking at him.

...But that gaze was nowhere to be found.

"Leo."

A familiar voice came from behind him, making Leo flinch as he turned around.

"Dad...?"

His father stood there, looking down at him with a tired expression.

"I came to pick you up," he sighed.

Leo looked away, feeling strangely uncomfortable. Their relationship wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t exactly close either. They were father and son, they did what a father and a son were supposed to do... but no one ever seemed to put in any extra effort beyond that.

"Where is Mom?" Leo asked quietly.

"She had a work emergency. Since I was at a meeting in a nearby café, I headed over here immediately to pick you up."

"...Oh."

Leo felt a small, sharp ache in his chest, and his mood sank.

...He had wanted to at least tell her that the director said he did well and—

He had wanted to make her proud.

"Listen, Leo, I still have some work to finish. So I’ll drop you off at home, alright?"

Leo simply nodded and started following his father, walking a step behind him.

Suddenly, Ronald decided to strike up a conversation as he walked ahead without turning around.

"The finals of the tournament are next week, right?"

"Yeah."

Leo watched the back of his father’s head as it gave a small nod.

Obviously, Ronald was talking about the Muay Thai tournament Leo was in. It had already been more than a year now since he started practicing Muay Thai. Even though it was a tournament, it was one with an age division from seven to nine.

And still, even now, Leo didn’t like the sport at all.

"Did all your bruises heal?" Ronald asked.

"...Most of them, yeah."

Leo blinked.

Did Mom tell him about the bruises?

"I’ll try to make time to come watch next week."

"...Really?"

Leo couldn’t help but feel a little excited as he saw that nod.

"What about Mom?" he asked quickly.

"If she has time, she’ll come."

"But she didn’t even come when I fought in the semi-finals..."

"Don’t be selfish, Leo. Your mother doesn’t have time to watch a mere semi-final. It’s not worth her time."

Leo flinched at the abrupt cold tone.

"Sorry..."

"I heard about your match in the semi-finals. It seems you had quite a difficult time."

Leo looked down, pressing his lips together as his father’s voice seemed to grow more stern, colder.

"The opponent was strong..."

"But—" Ronald cut in.

"You made a comeback in the end. It seems you got much better and the fight became easier as time went on, since you held on and then won."

Ronald suddenly stopped and turned to look at him with a gentle, fatherly smile. Leo froze, dazed. He wasn’t used to seeing that expression at all. From what he could remember, this might be the... sixth proper warm smile his father had ever given him.

"Do you know why you started winning as the time kept going?" Ronald asked.

A bit confused, Leo still answered.

"...Because of my stamina?"

That was Leo’s natural conclusion.

He had better stamina and didn’t give up. His opponent got tired, his punches became weaker, and that gave Leo the opportunity to win in the end.

"No."

Ronald shook his head, denying it bluntly and making Leo flinch again.

"It’s because you started reading your opponent. You adjusted your timing, started fighting smarter as your opponent overcommitted and fell into repetitive movements."

He sounded completely certain of this, yet Leo couldn’t help but wonder how he knew all of that. If he didn’t watch the match... then how?

"But it was also because you started getting better and stronger," Ronald continued.

Leo tilted his head slightly.

"This is one of your greatest talents, Leo, and I’ve been trying to nurture it in you. When you face a stronger opponent, you start... getting stronger too. You adapt. That’s why, even though you lack experience, you can still win against tougher opponents. Because someone like you has a genius-level ability to adapt. As long as there is someone better than you, you’ll have the potential to become much better."

’Adapt...’

It was a word that, for some reason, kept echoing in his mind.

"But it seems that even after all this time, you still can’t bring yourself to like Muay Thai," Ronald said.

Leo looked away, unable to withstand that heavy gaze for much longer.

"...Then let’s make a deal."

Frowning in confusion, Leo glanced back at his father.

"Deal?"

Ronald nodded.

"Yes. I’ll allow you to quit this sport under two conditions."

Leo’s eyes brightened instantly.

He really, really didn’t like this sport.

"What do I have to do?" he asked, his voice slipping out more eagerly than he intended.

"First, you have to win the tournament. If you fail, you’ll keep getting better at this sport, no matter how long it takes, until you win the next tournament."

Leo’s stomach tightened with nerves.

...The semi-final had already been extremely difficult. He had only won with great effort.

Still...

He nodded.

"Second, you must replace this sport with another."

Leo’s eyes dimmed.

Of course...

There was always something more.

"...Which one?"

Ignoring the look on his face, Ronald kept that same fatherly smile—a smile Leo was starting to like less and less.

"Basketball."

*****

When Leo got home and his father left after dropping him off, he was alone.

Dragging his feet, Leo walked toward the living area and sank down onto the couch.

Then he lay face-down on the leather, grabbing a pillow and tossing it onto the floor.

"Not worth her time..."

He murmured his father’s words.

...A mere semi-final wouldn’t make them happy. It wasn’t even worth their time. Him winning that was always expected, yet it had been much more difficult than he’d thought...

He could tell they were disappointed.

Still...

His father might come to watch the final. And maybe, if he was lucky, Mom would as well...

"I have to win..."

This was his chance. His chance to show his dad and make him proud as well.

Proud...

He had to meet their expectations and make them proud. Because he was smart—a genius—it was only natural that he won.

That was the only way to make them happy. It was the only way Leo knew how to make them happy.

They would smile, pat his head, or hug him if he did something good, like being the best at academics or sports.

But as he thought that, something Nathan had said to him last month popped into his mind.

———"

Listen, Leo! I finally made a perfect drawing yesterday and gave it to my mom and she got suuuuper happy! She started crying then and I panicked, but apparently she said it was "tears of joy"! Did your mom ever cry from being just that happy?"

Remembering those words, Leo couldn’t help but feel frustrated. He started rolling around on the couch.

"Ow!"

Of course, not long after, he fell off the couch and hit his head on the floor.

"Ugh..."

He rubbed his head as he lay there on the carpet.

"...Mom will be tired when she gets back home. Dad will be home late tonight... If I make a drawing, will that make her happy? Will it make her less tired?"

His expression brightened at what felt like a genius idea. Leo quickly stood up, went to find some crayons, a pencil, and a sheet of paper. With his supplies in hand, he sat down at the table.

Thinking about what he should draw, Leo didn’t have to think for long.

He began.

It didn’t take long to finish the drawing. But even after he was done, his mom still hadn’t come home.

After waiting for another hour, Leo finally heard the door open. He snatched up the paper and hurried toward the entrance.

It was his mother. She had an extremely tired, drained expression as she took off her shoes and coat, dragging her feet forward—only to stop when she saw Leo standing there with an excited look on his face.

"Leo? What is it?"

Seeing her expression, Leo for some reason felt flustered—more nervous than he had been at his audition earlier that day.

"Well... I... I made a drawing for you..."

"A drawing?"

Leo nodded, his heart beating faster as he handed it to her.

He couldn’t really read her expression, so he had no idea what she was feeling.

When he saw her open her mouth to speak, he somehow grew even more nervous.

"How was the audition?"

The question had nothing to do with the drawing.

"The audition? Um... it was good. The director said I did well, and I’m sure I impressed the others..."

"I see."

She sighed.

"You had a long day. You should go to bed early tonight."

She said this suddenly and walked past him, leaving Leo stunned as he quickly turned around.

"W-what about the drawing? Do... do you like it?"

She stopped in her tracks and turned back to him with a frown.

"Leo, I already know that, despite you having amazing talent in a lot of fields, you don’t have a knack for drawing. Don’t waste your time on such useless things. Focus on getting better at what matters."

Despite his intention of making her happy, the opposite seemed to have happened. Leo could see the displeasure on her face.

"But... I can get better at drawing if that makes you happy..."

"Leo."

Her displeasure deepened.

"That is enough. Stop causing me more trouble. I am already tired as it is."

"But—"

"If you really want to feel useful, go practice the piano. I’ll check if you’ve improved tomorrow."

Saying that, she walked away, opened the bin, and threw the drawing into it like trash.

With a blank look, Leo could only stare at the bin.

Even after she went to her room, Leo stood there.

And, for some reason, he was crying.